


Lessons in Darkness: Allegro

by ScarlettsLetters



Series: Lessons in Darkness [2]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Venice, Bottom Natasha Romanov, Canon Divergence - Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Courtesans, Dom Wanda Maximoff, Dom/sub, Established Wanda Maximoff/Stephen Strange, F/F, Flirting, Lesbian Sex, Porn With Plot, Pre-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Strangewitch, Sub Natasha Romanov, Venezia | Venice, top wanda maximoff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-03
Updated: 2018-05-03
Packaged: 2019-05-01 20:34:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14528643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScarlettsLetters/pseuds/ScarlettsLetters
Summary: The Lessons in Darkness series follows Wanda Maximoff in pursuit of an alternate universe Natasha Romanov. The coming darkness revealed in Infinity War may be undermined or averted if she can acquire the lost volume of the Hermetic Corpus. In those pages, a long ago Sorcerer Supreme penned spells and lore that Doctor Strange desperately needs.InAllegro, Wanda confronts the Russian courtesan at the Ca' di Perle, a renowned pleasure House cultivating an appreciation for the arts. Rather than the assertive, sly redhead, she is greeted by a demure, veiled artist more like a geisha than an assassin.New tactics are necessary if Wanda intends to find the Corpus and that path to Natasha's bed won't be as easy as it seems.





	Lessons in Darkness: Allegro

**Author's Note:**

> Part One: [Sonata](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14525865)
> 
> Part Three: [Adagio](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14537856)
> 
> * * *
> 
> In search of something to oppose a coming doom, Doctor Strange dispatches his beloved, Wanda Maximoff, to steal a missing piece of the Book of the Vishanti from another dimension. That treasured grimoire happens to be in the possession of the famed courtesan Natasha Romanova in an alternate universe Venice.

Venezia, _La Serenissima_ , takes her to its stucco breast. Humidity of a May twilight envelops her in a heated cloak stained by the scent of brine, copper, petrichor, and a nameless something. At once her sheer clothing feels stifling, the weight of her cloak entrapping warmth to her skin. Wanda draws in a breath and tastes the underlying rot on her tongue, her palate stained by an oily residue of slow decay.

She emerges into a plaza thick with foot traffic, illuminated by the dying glory of the sun. The turbulent sky glows copper and red, and the remaining shafts of light land upon a staccato skyline of thin towers and terra cotta red tiles, transforming the twin domes of a grand church into living sunfire. The molten gold dazzle briefly stops her in her tracks, and she shades her face against the spectacle.

This place is magical, she will give Strange credit where due. But the reminder of her task sets her into motion, pushing her way through the makeshift marketplaces where vendors hawk their wares from opulent storefronts and thin black boats narrow as a cutlass. Dandies and servants alike take their leave on the waterside steps alongside greenish canals turned into something mystical by nothing more than twilight.

To a one they take their measure of her, the dusky-haired girl with golden skin in their midst. Too many eyes turn her way. Despite the sticky moisture of the day, Wanda errs on the side of caution. Hands drag her hood further over her dusky hair. Without her leave, some faint enchantment stitched into her cloak blossoms, the fabric taking on a brazen sheen where once it was burgundy.

_ I love you too, insufferable man _ . She claims those small moments of quiet safe in the spell left for her by the greatest mystic on Earth, his affection piercing the weft of the gorgeous fabric. He cares for her deeply if he thinks this far ahead.

Little surprises pepper her relationship with Stephen Strange, be it the rare honey he stocks in the cupboards or the hundred other minute accommodations demonstrating that she holds a place behind his heart. Her steps quicken, emboldened by the mask of anonymity dropped over her. He entrusts her with a task of great importance, and it falls to her to set about doing it.

A creature of urban expanses, Wanda falls into the rhythms of an established urbanite. Every city has its own rhythm and pulse. Slowly opening herself to the mystical current of a place provides precious information. Soon enough she negotiates her way through the tangled alleys and filigree bridges flung over narrow canals like a local.

They surely have names for these places, the crooked byways and the tiny squares smaller than a foyer or closet in New York. Humanity exists everywhere she walks, thickest among the residents seeking entertainment for the evening or a respite from the day's affairs. Abundant flowers spilling out of window boxes and the bright stucco or plaster ornamentation speak to the wealth of the district.

Her initial meander offers a lay of the land, so to speak, providing landmarks among one exquisite postage stamp church after another. The familiar Christian iconography here is absent, replaced by Hellenistic statues of chiton-clad women -- the Muses, Athena, patrons of arts and culture -- and the handsome sun prince, Apollo. The island district belongs to the upper class, and her search for the House of Pearl turns up far too many possibilities.

So much for the easy path. She anticipated she might need to get hands on. Time for a new idea.

Somewhere nearby lies Natasha Romanova and the Hermetic Corpus. Wanda breathes in the sea-thick perfume of the air, eyes shut. She belongs to the vibrant crackle of energy surging through the tides. 

Not so unlike New York, the Venice of another dimension seethes with activity despite the waning hour. Men and women in forgettable grey or black cloaks hasten through the narrow walkways that front businesses lit by hurricane lamps and so many candles, raised in glowing heaps. She catches her reflection briefly in the shopfront window against a wall of macrame masks painted in splendid, jewel-bright hues.

Her heels click to a halt on the terra cotta. _Money_. She never thought of how to pay for anything, much less manage the undoubtedly high cost for a courtesan.

“Curse you, Doctor.” He is a million miles away from her, out of reach, and undoubtedly watching every moment like a potentate examining his serfs in the field from the comfort of a tower.

Luckily for her, life before entering the Sorcerer Supreme’s exalted company required certain skills. Pickpocketing may not be practiced much nowadays, but she remembers nights when she went to bed under bridges or in doorways with an empty belly. Some lessons of survival never elude her for long.

Finding a mark is hardly difficult, but the black cloaks serve to stymie her efforts to identify a dandy from a washerwoman at first. Observation is critical for any mystic or child condemned to the street. She watches for the cues, how a man walks or the signs of shoes too delicate for travel on the streets rather than a ballrooms. Wanda would bet her left arm most of those gems are paste instead of real, but gold thread and a thin shell around a white stocking foot is as good an indication of wealth as jewels at a throat or earlobes.

She slips off down an alley to one of the countless little squares focused around a well, the sort of place badly lit by dim gas lamps and favoured by lovers meeting for trysts or men for business. 

Fortune smiles on Wanda, in no small part thanks to the hexes she twists while walking into the forgettable corner. Here and there, vendors hawk wine, chocolate, bits of fried bread and fruit. When the taller of her marks halts to pay for candied apricots, she steps in to join the line. Hardly difficult at all to bump against him when he turns to deliver his morsels to the woman accompanying him, an act of utter simplicity.

He curses at her in his heavy Venetian dialect. “Move aside!”

Noble-born, almost certainly. People never lose their importance or status regardless of their dimension. She murmurs apologies in Croatian, raising her hand to her lips.

His companion pulls the man back, hand on his shoulder. A glimpse of shell pink lips curve up, beauty mark in the shape of a heart winking in the dim light. Under the hood, the woman wears a silver mask speckled in bas relief blossoms.

“Leave her be. Probably too much port wine.”

“Clumsy. Watch where you go, not all people are as charitable or forgiving as I,” he says.

“My apology,” Wanda whispers. She mangles Italian she has spoken since she was nine, trying to chew the familiar syllables into all the wrong edges.

The pair depart while she shies away from the food cart, cutting back up the nearest alley and doubling around to the main plaza she viewed not long before. Venetians no doubt have fanciful names for all their varied locations above the brackish water, but she belongs to another kind of cosmopolitan centre lit by electricity and charged by wireless messages and ambitions.

At latest Doctor Strange did not set her astray on the matter of fashion. Her skirt may be slimmer and her corset undoubtedly plainer than most, but the few glimpses of Venetians she sees without cloaks attest to sheer fabrics and daring lines, none of the huge hoop skirts and endless seas of modest lace she expected.

“One day, I'll stop trusting romance novels for historical accuracy,” she murmurs to herself as she cuts over a bridge.

Very little effort on her part, and a small copper coin -- a _soldo_ \-- pays for quick instructions to the Ca’ di Perle from a smirking boy of probably fourteen. His attempts to peer through the shadows concealing her golden face must be good, since he waves his hand and takes her half of the way himself, right up to a large bridge.

“You have to cross the Rialto yourself, but you won't miss it.”

“How does it look?” A spell could make translation easy, but Wanda relies on standing out as an outsider, someone awed by the glories of the Queen of the Adriatic.

“The plainest house on the canal. They don't have any colour, either the women or the walls.” He grins then, all sharp black eyes and strong white teeth. “Too bad that's your taste. I could show you half a dozen other places that put a bit more thunder in your veins than those milquetoast chits.”

Her smile is no smile at all, an answer conjured from the shadows. If she cannot master a striping youth, she has no business cavorting with a Black Widow.

Or, in this case, the White Widow.

She encounters no trouble finding a path through the main thoroughfare where the greatest houses in the city dwell. Huge, palatial homes soar into the sky, each eager to catch the most of the dying light that they can. Chandeliers blaze behind stately windows transformed into bold sheets of gold-dipped glass. The updated façades feature gas lamps set in faceted glass, the better to throw dazzling prisms across the weathered sculptures of maidens and satyrs and countless other natural creatures.

For a lack of trees, the Venetians make their own forest rise from the cerulean lagoon. Hard not to appreciate the feat, as much as she passes deeper into the noble quarter atop an island almost level with the calmed waves. The call of gondoliers mingles with the slap of their oars, receding into a kind of quiet while she inches along the cobbled lanes.

Levitating atop the water might be inadvisable, all considered. No matter what Strange claims, she sees no proof of the mystical other than the low-level hum of power stitched into the eroded cobbles and the faded plaster walls to keep the infiltrating sea from stealing the city whole into its aqueous arms. Minor enchantments hold rot and rat alike at bay, but do not help the faint, musty odors from the gutters.

Soon enough she has the place, which matches the description. For a ‘house,’ the soaring five story height defies her understanding of an urban home. This is an apartment, albeit one entirely treated to be dove grey. Pale stone balconies curving along the front serve no purpose but to hold up ornamental flower boxes spilling lambs ears and traces of white alpine flowers. Next to the showy displays in deep russet, rose, buttercream, and robin's egg blue, not to mention the turquoise backdrop of the lagoon, the Ca’ di Perle is practically ghostly.

“House of Pearl indeed.“ Wanda feels the purse in her hand. A simple spell might transform the coins into heavier pieces, but until she knows the arcane defenses, unwise.

Closed black iron gates open onto a tiny courtyard the size of a decorative pillow, enfolded by white clematis and jasmine painting the air in a heady fragrance. Trellises vanish under the foliage. A single guard in grey holds an absurdly long guisarme; at his side, the sword bears more threat. The well-groomed gentleman reminds her of German businessmen, being somewhere around thirty.

He eyes her with disinterest until she places her fingertips to the gate. He stands within, not without, and challenges her in a heartbeat.

“What do you seek?”  
  
Curse Strange twice over for not preparing her for this. Putting him to sleep might not be trouble, but certainly she could use more information on how to proceed. Closing her hand around her cloak, she does not smile. Her grave golden features act as an imposing barrier when not lit by an inner warmth.

“The rarest luxuries Venezia has to offer,” she says.

“Try the casino or Ca’ d’Or. You can't pay.”

Wanda's teeth grit. She lifts her chin, daring to meet him eye to eye. “Payment shall not be an issue. I have heard the repute of Ca’ di Perle. If I am to sample any of the city's jewels, it will be here or not at all.”

“You have pluck, I give you that. A fine way with words for an outsider. But no.”

He steps back, the grip on the shaft of the polearm tightening. Options splinter and fall around her, and this exercise seems to bore rather than amuse him. No getting in that way.

“I ask you reconsider.” She buys for time, fully aware of how few access points there might be.

The guard shakes his head. “We are not for you, madam.”

“Lady.” Title flung at his pristine, mirror-sheen boots, she raises her chin. Netting her pride has never been much of a threat the same way as Pietro, but her twin shares a certain unwillingness to yield. His pale colour and devil-may-care attitude certainly might be welcome, if not that speed. “I am a lady and will be acknowledged as such.”

“Lady or empress, the house is not open for travelers driven by curiosity or a tale. You will go.”

A brilliant cerise light blooms in her pupils, slowly spreading over the amber shade of her irises. Motes collide into a solid sheet of glowing radiance that give her her name -- scarlet, unvarying, a hint of violet shifted away from red. “You will reconsider your decision and allow me to speak with the Mistress, surely?”

He backs away two steps from her, the butt of his guisarme striking a smooth terra cotta tile. The fear concealed behind his face is briefly satisfying, a reaction she consciously shoves aside. Indulging in fear is who she was, not whom she is. A faint wisp spindles around her fingers, and she raises her hand, palm up in supplication. “Please.”

Please never hurts.

The doors open of their own accord, admitting her into the courtyard. Sometimes a display of power serves. The guard resumes his duties, bowing curt and shallow at the waist. “Forgive me, we often receive many guests with no intentions to respect our adepts. The Mistress will be delighted to provide whatever assistance she may.”

That solves that. Her nod short at best, she breezes past him and the lavish garden. The sooner she gets inside, the sooner she gets home.

* * *

 

 _House of Pearl_. There may be a thing called too literal an interpretation, though Wanda accepts a white tea softly flavoured by a kiss of citrus as she sits upon a pale opal settee. In here, her attire feels needlessly garish. Jewel tones have no business among snow and old bone, though she understands the attraction to Natasha Romanova.

Her contract with the mistress of the house lies in a steel coffer three rooms over. Her coin remains with her. Not a single jot exchanged other than her signature leaves the witch mildly perturbed. Her cover as a Croatian hardly caused an eyelash to bat. If anything, they treat her with kid gloves here, the demure, veiled assistant offering her tea with the air of someone overawed.

Possibly peeling back the seals on her magic was a bad idea. In retrospect, she rather wishes she tried for a token. No help now. The teacup chatters on the translucent bone porcelain saucer. She sips the warm beverage, waiting patiently for Natasha.

That much surprised the Mistress, but not for long. Wanda decides she rather likes the unflappable woman concealing a soul of steel behind her pristine white dress cut extravagantly high at the hips, and then doused in a sheer veil worn rather like a nun met with a medieval princess.

This city, truly, is strange.

The salon looks like one found in a well-to-do home, with crisp furnishings upholstered in pastel tones. Ivory-hued tables stand in between the chaise lounges and the sideboard with several trays of refreshments of identical shade. She considers whether to test if those liqueurs are clear or milky, and thinks the better of it, inhaling the soft fragrance of the tea.

If white is the color of innocence, then the atmosphere in the salon promotes that rarest of virtues. Pristine plaster walls and tiled floors offset the variety of cream and pearl furnishings, right down to the porcelain vases and sheer white curtains hiding the windows.

Contrasting with the light shades and modest decor, hints of a darker side throughout the room occasionally emerge. One of the table's pedestals reveals a counterpoint shot of black mother of pearl. French script scrolls in charcoal sweeps upon an embroidered pillow. A deep violet iris among sprays of white chrysanthemum and baby's breath adds a sharp note.

Heavy rain falls outside, drowning early evening in grey. Wanda is hardly abandoned to her thoughts in the Ca’ di Perle. The resident courtesans go about their business, never making eye contact. How strange to share the salon with a horde of veiled graceful creatures engaged in hushed conversation where they are scattered across the long hall in small groups, white gowns or tunics and white gauzy veils being the predominant attire, save for very few exceptions.

Movement tugs upon her awareness. The witch glances up in time to see that outlier, a courtesan clad in light blue just in the process of descending the stairs. She comes from the upper hallway where the Mistress’s office and the dormitories and private chambers stay out of sight. A pair of grey-blue eyes is all that is visible of Natasha Romanova, her gaze raised briefly as she reaches the lower landing, glancing about the salon, perhaps in search of a friend.

Certainly not an effigy of familiarity will be found there. Wanda knows this. The other courtesans -- adepts, the guard called them -- isolate her as a ruby and hematite islet in a smooth white lake.

One wonders if any of them have the least idea of what those veils truly mean outside this curious house. The witch raises her teacup higher. _Have they any notion of what it means to be confined within smothering layers of fabric chosen, not for allure, but to hold off the prying eyes of competitive men and women who would claim a look at someone else's property?_

Chattel is a funny concept, one lived with excruciating awareness by a captive of a sentient machine; a woman who, barely into her majority, spun every tale and vision she could to maintain some vestige of purity against the dark tides in her own blood. Perhaps she understands this house better than others, the apparent game of veils and demure discretion they play at.

So on that thought slips in the sorceress, an she rises, heading to the first of the white-clad figures. Wanda remains shrouded in a long hooded mantle hammered in the pale bronze hue of a midwinter sunset. Whatever else the Ca’ di Perle might wish, they cannot fault her for polite manners, even as the shadows cast her gilded face in brazen relief, and those full, sensual lips are themselves hidden by the very darkness in a veil of like nature.

"I would fain speak with Natasha Romanova," she murmurs, addressing her purpose simply enough. No guard with her, not even a reputation accompany Wanda Maximoff at her most anonymous. As anonymous as one can be, always, in a city hungry for gossip. "You need not rouse her on my behalf; I mean not to be as a fox in the dovecote."

The wait is hardly long as the dove flits away from Wanda. It's the blue-clad woman she approahes, one hand lifting to indicate the visitor, whose name had not been given. Even so, this courtesan moves close gracefully, hands joined by loosely laced fingers before her, the gaze downcast until the young woman has arrived before the woman whose hue of cloak is a slight contrast to the tones of white and light pastel colors that dominate this salon.

"My lady," the courtesan in light blue attire intones, raising her eyes just so that they can try to acknowledge the other's presence, "I am Natasha Romanova. You requested to see me...?"

The voice is polite, showing off a hint of a shy tremble, the glance she gives Wanda is curious though, and not unfriendly.

In pastels, even that watered copper stands out, and the dreaming sky of her long, opalescent silk betrays Wanda as a nymph stolen from Arcadian vales. Her cloak is not surrendered in full, though she does the favour of pushing her heavy hood back. So betrays the deep golden kiss of her complexion. She inclines her head, blunting the intensity of her empurpled eyes behind the sooty lashes given in abundance, matching bistre locks wound into some elaborate cluster of curls in a similarly ancient style when Rome was but a dream in some peasant's eye.

"Wanda Maximoff, late of Ragusa." A keen softness to her voice rounds out every syllable, her rolling Transian dialect matched in every sense by that lyrical other, the one that defies anyone able to immediately measure its origins. "You were recommended to me by another of my association, a gentleman of the Crijevic noble family. You are familiar with the house?" she adds softly, lilting words measured in their presence, avoiding any demand. Assertiveness is in her nature, a streak of white fire that might be amiss here. And possibly not. 

Whatever little is visible from Natasha, it seems her expressive eyes at least try to make up for that. Eyes that look like pools of grey blue widen ever so slightly as she takes in the impressive appearance of the Maximoff, and there is a surprised blink when the Perle courtesan hears the introduction. Then, there is a lift of her eyebrows when a certain name mentioned, a softening there in her expression. "Ah! I see," Natasha replies softly. An exhale there, evident from the subtle movement of her veil. "The Crijevic, my lady? You mean House Cerieva? The counts of Ragusa. Yes, I do know of them." Fingers move over the fabric of her dress as if to smooth out the fabric. She lowers her gaze. "This has all been very surprising. I had no knowledge anyone would speak so well of me. What is purpose of your visit, though?” 

She hovers upon that question, drawing her breath. ”Perhaps, you wish for a bit of refreshment? Some mulled wine perhaps, to help drive away the chill of the weather outside?"Natasha adds then, raising her gaze and her hand as well, in an inviting gesture, towards the comfortable seats.

Grey-blue meets deep twilight eyes, depths prone to changing with the ebb and flow of light. Black lashes frame those vast, capricious pools full of emotions layered upon one another. Curiosity seems to shine at the surface; below that, a complicated assortment. "Lord Cerieva has been one of my dearest companions and a patron as well. If a tad maddening with that ego of his." Her dusky hair spills in bistre waves, veiling slim shoulder and curved jaw.

The explanation proffered, the sorceress extends her hand lightly, parting the breached line of her lovely oceanic cloak. The faintest trickle of reddish light steals around her rings. It's a risk, but one Wanda dares to take. None of the ward breathe of danger around her, the first shreds of power going unnoticed.

Stephen Strange disapproves of mind-altering substances and magics. That is well and good, but he is not a stranger in a strange land. Nor is he here to admonish her for relying on a useful tool. A nudge in the right direction is all she wants.

"He spoke of you to me, a gem whom held very much promise. He swore that you had secret knowledge. My promise to come to Venice meet you appropriately fell afoul of other adventures. I would no longer be waylaid. Whatever do you know that is so valuable, so promising?" The curve of Wanda’s smile holds perhaps an unanticipated edge, teasing nearly, a whetstone to rend the unsuspecting. "If you have any mulled wine, I should be grateful. Is not getting to know someone who beguiled a friend reason enough to come? Shall I set myself to unwrapping your many secrets to know the essence of you at your core? I suspect you might put up a fight for that, or deflect direct methods."

Grey-blue eyes that had been clouded slightly with a hint of worry brighten considerably at the explanation Wanda comes up with. A faint scarlet spark vanishes in her pupils. A moment and gone, no more, but the spell takes hold. The courtesan smiles. "Oh! I know the younger lord. Stepan? I believe he penned me a letter informing me of his departure. Days after he took his leave, I received it. To think he left me concerned that something could have happened to him. The rascal."

A faint ripple of her long veil outlines Natasha's hand extending to take that of Wanda to lead her over to a comfortable chaise longue. "So he spoke of me to you, my lady?" she echoes, shooting Wanda a sideways glance. "Secrets are dangerous things. You mustn't think me so. He spoke only the best, I hope...?" Conversational the tone may be, but there is a slight flicker in her gaze, faint but there.

"He is that, surely. One can hardly forget the likes of him." Wanda flits after the courtesan if she deigns to move, otherwise content to hold her position at present. "After a nigh on a year and some in Lord Stepan's company, being without him is strange indeed. Yes, he spoke of you. He meant only well, be assured. I can only guess at what he meant by secret knowledge known only to you. Should I spoil such surprises, or mayhap you harbour an answer yourself?" The query lingers long after her vivid gaze lifts, unafraid to meet one with grave, luminous eyes awash in so much knowledge.

A murmured request about the mulled wine Natasha issues to a novice, before she gets settled herself, per habit lowering herself onto a kneeling cushion. "I miss good company. You will have to wish him the best when next you see Stepan." She lifts her eyes to meet the gaze of the sorceress, curiosity in her own expression. "I feel honored, to be sought out merely for the sake of a good word from your friend," she remarks then, with a smile that may be evident from the slight crinkle at the corner of her eyes. "As for secrets..." Here her voice trails off and she gives Wanda a surprised, curious look. "I have none, apart from those imposed upon me by my calling. I hate to disappoint you."

“Be not too alarmed. He granted me an insight, that's all. I was most curious about a young woman who impressed a dear friend. He implied nothing untoward. Venezia is full of mysteries and beauties, but nothing quite prepared me for you. You are familiar and stranger both." Wanda laughs softly. "Curious, isn't it? But well worth the stop."

Natasha's gaze lifts to meet the eyes of the witch, her own widening in surprise. “A mystery?” she echoes, and by the tone of the woman’s voice, she may indeed not have been aware of any mystery at all. “I have no clue what you are referring to, Lady Wanda.” The veiled creature remains standing as well, fingers lacing before her. The veil is subjected to more exhales, fluttering slightly from her breath. “Please, my lady, what is it he has in mind?” Curiosity prevails over patient modesty when grey-blue eyes meet the violet gaze of the sorceress.

Whose words sink in after a moment, and Natasha lifts a brow. “Familiar? How so?”

"I can only imagine how unique a woman as yourself must be, to impress as jaded a man as Stepan. Of course, I had to know this mystery for myself. He understands I treasure certain experiences. Rare experiences." Wanda pauses a moment to let her lilting words sink in, rainfall drank into a parched bed. She follows Natasha but sitting first is not her volition, for the rules of the Venetian house of pleasure are a delicate thing, unfamiliar. She tests, measuring in the way that women do. It's a subtler thing than men.

Natasha almost blushes beneath her veil. Perhaps she does, but she tilts her head down and demurs, a murmur soft and non-committal upon her lips. “Such rarities may not be freely spoken of outside? I feel such sorrow when certain artistic knowledge is caged and unappreciated.”

“Agreed,” Wanda says. “I have found certain arts to my taste that rarely find appreciation elsewhere. The rascal would have me think you know something of refined performances that I long to see again and experience outside of memory.” The capstone of a sigh ripples around the carefully selected words. “That I should be willing to pay dearly for, as someone purchases tickets for that one chance to see a beloved singer again.”

“I had not taken you for a connoisseur of rare arts, my lady. You have come to a shrine honouring them, if so. At Ca’ di Perle, we study the refinements of rare art. The pearls, you see? They must be recovered and polished with diligence, and the reward is mastery. Our performances may not command the audiences of La Fenice, but you may hear such songs of beauty on a different scale. A more personal one. We celebrate feminine arts little explored elsewhere, and our courtesans take our quiet pride in satisfying guests with an unexpected touch,“ Natasha explains with a smile that is more heard than seen.

The tip of her head narrows the distance between them, and Wanda leans from the waist slightly. "Am I mistaken or do I look one upon whom very few have ever looked, save those who earned the trust and honour of inviting that favour? That may be his idea all along, to put together the sun and the moon." The fleeting curve of her smile follows. "It may depend to you whether or not you want to expose yourself to the guessing what designs I had in mind otherwise."

When the Maximoff girl leans forward, she does not back away, her chin lifting instead as she meets the other Transian’s gaze. “Expose myself, Lady Wanda?” Again, she echoes those words. “Perhaps you are unaware of the custom in Venezia? I am a courtesan, and the Ca’ di Perle is an old house of the arts and culture. Our rules are nearly four hundred years old.

Among them, I am only permitted to unveil myself to those that take an assignation.” Her words are hardly more than a murmur, and her eyes show obvious respect for the topic. “We shroud ourselves so to better provide focus upon the art, and not the player. For modesty, too. Once ladies of Venezia were hardly allowed to step outside without a veil or mask, and we recall our heritage. I do hope it does not bother you?”

The uplift of a question reveals that canny juxtaposition of modesty and machinations, contrived by a killer. Wanda hardly resists the slightest of smiles. Who better to hide among the maidens in their white and blue veils, the youths and men protected by anonymity? Natasha Romanova may play at demure here, but so too has she protected herself with an unbreakable social barrier stronger than walls and gates. She can't help but admire the establishment where the spider weaves her webs.

Bowing her head, the witch laughs in the same echo of a chord, low and inestimably warm. "Expose yourself to an idea. An idea cares not whether you have a veil upon your face and thick clothes woven around you to smother your shape. It takes root all the same. Hear shards of a phrase, and your mind will open like a flower to capture the rest of the music behind it, my lady," she replies, giving no indication of a violation against good sense. "Have you ever heard what the ancient Greeks said of knowledge, and hope? They have a story about a woman created by the gods, as immaculate and perfect as any human could hope to be, and did not warn her about the nature of knowledge. They cursed her with curiosity, among her shining virtues. For knowledge once had cannot be unhad; as it was, I may open you to something you never anticipated, and it cannot be undone. Your veil of secrecy may drop. Or perhaps you might do the same to me.”

"Such mystery, my lady, seems perilous. Do you fear your guide has led you wrong?” Natasha asks, her brows rising slightly as she seems to be baffled by the avalanche of words launched in her direction. And here she finally moves to sit -- no, knee -- at her accustomed spot on a cushion on the floor, encouraging Wanda to sit down. "What idea are you speaking of then, Lady Wanda? I am thus subjected to the rules of this House, that require me to stay here and my looks to remain a carefully veiled mystery. As for the curiosity you mention..." Glimpsing the fellow courtesan with the mulled wine approaching, Natasha waves her over, accepting the two cups only to hand one to her charming and so eloquent visitor, whilst keeping the other in her hand.

"I can only admit curiosity to your wishes here, and how they involve me, if they do," the courtesan begins anew, and her gaze flickers ever so slightly, as she is trying to grasp thoughts and ideas that are forming in her mind and put to words. Her fingers lift the veil ever so slightly, as she averts her face momentarily, to take a discreet sip from the cup. Warmth spreads through her limbs, in reaction to the mulled wine just had, tempting this light blue courtesan to add, "Speaking of what is hidden behind veils... There was a visitor the other day, a brutish kind of a man, who actually insinuated the veils are used to hide ugly visages." A soft, melodious laugh follows, her grey-blue eyes crinkling at the corners with evident mirth.

The slim cup will be taken, a seat with it. Wanda is not set on standing around the entire time, at least where alcohol is involved. She does not complain upon that front, anyways, settling with some quiet focus into a seat proffered. There must be one about, and her voluminous cloak slips out around her body, smoothly fluffed and spilled in so many folds 'round the slope of her knees and dripping off the cushioned upholstery. Her shoulders lift lightly as she peers into the heart of the glass, tipping it so. "Imagine that. Hideous beings behind veils, masquerading as beauties! I would be honestly shocked if the lord sent me so far just for a shock. No, I should rather think he meant me to unwrap you.”

It is a good thing that Natasha is no more standing but settled on a kneeling cushion. "My lady!" The exclamation enough to make the gauzy veil before her features flutter, even if she keeps her voice low enough as not to disturb the serene tranquility of the decadent salon. "I can offer guidance if you are unfamiliar with the customs of the house.” Her tone is a bit timid perhaps, as such extent of implications of the witch's presence has not yet dawned upon her.

Those tides of thought turn as Wanda lowers her wine glass, long fingers pinching the stem and turning the liquid ever so slowly. Her vivid gaze treks across the woman's face, what might be revealed and what not. Wanda is fearless in that, peering into the fire for the answers forbidden from mankind. She might peer into the eye of God, too. "I have passing experience with the feminine arts, and little chance to practice them. As this is a place where they are treasured, is it merely a small performance or a virtuoso solo? What pleases you most to do?"

The cup of mulled wine Natasha remembers suddenly, and keeping her gaze on Wanda this time, she takes another sip, lifting the veil just so that such goes unhampered without revealing too much of her. Even so, the delicate skin of a neck comes into view, unblemished as would become an courtesan, whose supposed innocence and grace is after all why she is called a pearl. "A guest has options, of course. To choose an independent performance in the house, or to join an audience at a public showing. I regret to say those rare and reserved for holidays or festivals, when we pay honour to the community who nourishes and supports our spirit." Her face may not be too far from that of the witch, the kneeling cushion position before the chaise not coincidental after all.

If Wanda should choose to study Natasha's face for a moment, she may actually glimpse a smooth chin, pale skin, even a hint of her fiery brows. As the veil is thin, gauzy and will reveal the slight curl of lips hidden behind it. "What would _I_ like to do? It is… Forgive me, Lady Wanda. I must sound foolish to you. I have enjoyed a good education, yet. To be honest only few patrons of courtesan come here to enjoy lengthy conversations, and least of them seek advice or inquire after our preferences."

Golden-skinned witch that she is, Wanda would leave little question to any prying eyes seeking her underneath a veil. Fair features can be hidden, but not so much the telltale hue of her complexion being muted in layers. She does not avert her gaze from sipping, but instead remarks, "Then someone may well be missing out to learn something new. Like such. Attempting to dine gracefully whilst veiled is a trick to accomplish, and I wonder how many Venetians appreciate how much training it takes to accomplish with even a modicum of skill." The tip of her head sends a cascade of her bistre hair slipping over her shoulder, the waterfall capturing the light in a spindrift of hidden fire. Her fingertips curve against the base of the glass, hefting the subtle weight. Feeling the way the curve fills her palm and, in turn, her palm conforms to the feel of it. Then she sighs softly, not so much release. "You do not need to apologize, nor say it is foolish. I put a question to you fairly, and defer to your knowledge. As I have said, I am at a disadvantage your other guests are not. These customs are new to me, and surely I am not the first traveler to come to unfamiliar shores, beguiled by the opportunity and scarce aware of what I should request."

"You've been to far away lands," Natasha remarks thoughtfully. "You must have seen so many things, foreign cultures. It cannot have been pleasant, at all times... Why, I suspect these adventures must have been dangerous as well. You must not think this so risky as braving the sea or man-eating lions." A soft chuckle then, to the challenge of eating and drinking whilst veiled, "Oh, this is an art we have learned to master to perfection." For obvious reasons. Grey-blue eyes watch the witch, the way she holds herself in perfect poise. "It seems one grows with each new experience," the courtesan states softly. "But I am glad to see there are others as well that are faced with new discoveries." Her eyes lower just so, leaving the intriguing gaze of the witch. “Would it please you for me to demonstrate?"

Questions and facts are as a pretty string of polished stones eventually can be knotted and laced together, forming their own adornment of knowledge. Moments pass while Wanda raises her glass of wine, once more regarding the cut shimmer of light glancing off the meniscus, bent through the body of transparent liquid. If there were imperfections here, too, they might be a marvel given how the beautiful city, strange and alien, does not seem to tolerate flaws, inclusions, or any hint of an error. A frightful thing, to imagine how such ends come to be. "If you may tolerate my ignorance, I would be grateful for your company. I am glad to learn what you would teach. The world would be rather dull indeed with nothing to learn. We cannot live blissfully ignorant because all that's worth knowing is already locked in our heads at the moment of our conception."

"Oh...?" Natasha seems to be surprised at that prospect. “Of course I should be delighted to show you a few things.” Her own cup of mulled wine, the courtesan holds in her hand, and it shakes some. She curls a little closer on the kneeling cushion, facing the chaise where Wanda is so comfortably settled on her chaise longue. The rain taps on the windowpane.

Wanda offers a faint smile and says no more, shaking her head as she retreats into something of a smiling, serene ebb. She makes curling up on a chaise look effortless, the sort of thing someone does without trying, an innate birthright. Her posture isn't precisely languid, but still graceful all the same. "As long as you are happy, I imagine, that should be enough." The words are simple enough as they stand, and she regards the world in graceful lines.  
  
A flicker sparks in her grey-blue eyes when Natasha notes another patron’s entrance, a slight clouding there of her gaze, if only temporary. "I am happy, my lady. Truly. Yet also a little nervous. A performer always wishes to do their best, and you give me such a broad field to play upon.”  
  
"Is it any comfort that all artists must feel the same?" The dusky-haired witch ventures a serene gaze down upon the kneeling courtesan, those depthless eyes nigh unreadable beyond the surface mercury emotions cast in amusement. She inclines her head and then sets her glass aside. "Though I must bear some of the guilt, as I am but giving you diversion from actual pleasure and work." Her gaze glints, following the aristocratic dandy sweeping off his cloak who settles in nearby to speak with a white-clad courtesan.  
  
It takes her a moment to grasp the full meaning of what Wanda tells her. Brows lift, then lower just so, as Natasha frowns. “Guilt, my lady? I enjoy this conversation, in fact, very much so."

"Isn't it the height of rudeness to keep you all to myself? Even I have a good idea of how to behave in such a lovely place as this," teases the golden-skinned witch, extending her fingers to almost but not quite touch the courtesan in all her veiled serenity. "A promise of action is not the same as activity itself, after all." A blunt look through long, dark skeins of her lashes smolders with a complicated concoction of emotions. Wanda murmurs, "I suppose I would be curious to know any number of things, but those are not meant for the public sphere but the privacy of intimacy and for that, ah, I'd have no doubt to sign a contract, part with pretty coin, and learn what wonders and terrors are themselves held behind so innocent and mild a countenance." She taps her finger to her lips. "On maps, we oft put 'here be monsters' as a good deterrent. No doubt a similar quality happens here." Bad girl.

Natasha meanwhile reacts with a surprised tightening of her gaze to Wanda witch's playfully predatory remark. Grey-blue eyes flit to where fingers reach to almost touch, before they shift back where they can meet the Maximoff girl’s gaze. "So you wish for the privacy of a studio, my lady?" she inquires, the blink of her eyes almost convincingly innocent. A hand lifts, in obvious gesture for another courtesan to inform the Mistress, while the courtesan clad in light blue silk that shifts about her slender form leans a touch forward, tilting her head a little as her lashes lower just so. "You'd be astonished, I'd wager, to hear of what monsters such unblemished souls as ours are bound to encounter in these blessed halls."

As she pulls back, a giggle escapes those hidden lips, breaking the spell of her astonishing announcement in the moment she rises.

"Any number, surely the sorts only whispered about in the back alleys. For certainty only you can conceal something so magnificent and harrowing in such calming and mild surroundings, and not have a single guest bat an eyelash to indicate aught is amiss." She doesn't break character on that front, whispering softly in a low tone of voice that does not travel. Wanda is an expert to that, glancing askance at the Russian assassin. "Oh, now you truly have and well put me upon the spot, darling, and setting such pretty and innocent hooks into me."

“I promise you a night to remember, with such things you learn as will make your gentleman jealous,” Natasha whispers.

The shimmer of amusement percolates up from some deep wellspring, something resplendent to hear if not see. The sound folds and melds upon itself, radiant with an emotional depth that few people carry. Wanda wraps her fingers around the veiled courtesan’s offered hand. "Are you quite so certain? My art to you is not the sort commonly aligned to the thing that can make a woman blush, or a man for that matter, though they exist in some capacity."

“Absolutely.” The fair Russian courtesan lifts her head, braving a smile as gentle as the first flush of spring. And deep in her gaze, Wanda's challenge sparks a corresponding rise of her own.

  


**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is always warmly welcomed. Feel free to drop in a comment or kudo if you enjoyed this work! <3


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